


Carry On, Baz

by rhien



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: AU, Fangirl-era canon, M/M, Slightly crack, slightly meta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/rhien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz lives in every AU. Maybe.</p><p>(Starting from "The Fifth Hare," in Rainbow Rowell's <em>Fangirl</em>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It wasn’t that Baz didn’t _notice_ things. He had always been plenty observant, thank you very much.

Maybe it was just that Baz’s life suffered from a sad lack of mortal peril before Simon. He didn’t notice anything very weird until after the first hare incident, at Christmas break, sixth year. Till after he and Simon killed the Moon Rabbit.

He shouldn’t really have been able to hold on to the beast—the way it thrashed about, the blood-slick fur—vampire strength or no, it was a little incredible. Especially as he had been far from full strength at the time. But desperation and adrenaline (and bloodlust) could account for a lot.

And after they killed the Rabbit, he rather immediately had other things to think about.

 

#

 

It wasn’t _Baz’s_ fault. Simon was the one who’d been _grabbing_ at him all night—Simon pulling on him in the boat (grabbing his cloak, shoving in so close that Baz had to shudder and slip back onto the dock _right that second_ before he leaned the wrong way, nearer to those intense blue eyes, before he pulled Simon even closer—and got decked in the process, no doubt); Simon taking his arm when the rabbit first fell out of the mural on the ceiling; Simon _holding his hand_ in that faery-damned nursery, for Crowley’s sake.

All Baz had done was fall asleep on the floor for a few minutes; he’d been tired, exhausted, practically starving after weeks without a decent drink, and though sleep didn’t really solve the problem, he couldn’t help it. And when he woke up, just a little later… Simon’s hand was in his, alive and so warm and wrapped around his chilly fingers, and Simon was asleep, too.

This was certainly an accident, he told himself, very firmly, and only let himself count to ten before withdrawing his hand from Simon’s. (If he counted a little slowly… no one needed to know that.)

It wasn’t his _fault._ It wasn’t his fault, a few minutes later, that he’d had to resort to vampire strength to stop that horror of a rabbit. True, at least he got a solid meal out of it, _finally_ , but then he had to stand and turn and face Simon. A Simon who finally knew the truth.

When he turned around, covered with blood, dripping with blood, sated with blood, and threw the Sword of Mages at Simon’s feet… he didn’t really know what to expect. Shock. Horror. Accusation. Definitely some kind of righteous indignation. Possibly an attack. On second thought, he probably shouldn’t have given Simon back the sword… it had been a reflex. A stupid, suicidal reflex, he scolded himself. But Baz felt so much better now, after finally getting to _drink_. Warm and strong, and all his senses tingling. I can hold him off, he thought.

Not that that would help in the long run.

Simon picked up the sword slowly, and wiped the gore off it.

Baz didn’t know what to do. Fight back? Run away? Try to talk him into… what? He couldn’t hurt Simon… he _wouldn’t_.

That’s ridiculous, he snapped at himself. You’ll do what you have to.

He didn’t know what to do.

It wasn’t his fault that all Simon said was, “You all right?”

Baz couldn’t speak. Not a word. He could barely lick his lips and nod.

“Good,” said Simon, so sincerely; and he might just as well have punched Baz in the stomach—he couldn’t breathe through the shock, shock so profound that he could think of nothing that could’ve forced him to move.

Nothing except for fire.

Obligingly, the dead rabbit burst into flames just behind him, and so he _had_ to move and they had to deal with the rest of that mess.

And then Simon kept acting so… normal. Suggesting showers and breakfast and generally behaving as if he did things like this all the time: Eating bread and apples on the kitchen floor, sitting right next to Baz. Fighting monsters together, like allies. Watching his roommate reveal himself to _be_ a monster.

Casually asking questions about that. Calm, _concerned_ questions. And offering _help._ Like he cared. Like they were friends. Like they hadn’t spent the last five and a half years tormenting one another incessantly, one way or another. Like Simon hadn’t hated him since the moment they’d met.

“I don’t hate _this_ ,” Simon replied to that last part. “What you’re doing—denying your most powerful urges, just to protect other people. It’s more heroic than anything I’ve ever done.”

This was nonsense, of course, from start to finish. Baz wasn’t trying to protect anyone, except himself and his family. ( _And Simon,_ a stray thought whispered. Shut up, he told it.) But Baz didn’t disabuse him of the notion. It sounded like… like….

Like he didn’t think Baz was just a monster.

It wasn’t Baz’s fault that Simon had to go and offer to help him. Had to go and kiss him.

And Baz was tired from being up all night, but he didn’t bother with disbelief or denial. There was no way that this was anything other than pure reality—Simon leaning into him with soft lips and scratchy jaw, the taste of cheese and apples in their mouths, his warm breath against Baz’s cheek. So real that it was sharp, painful almost. Baz leaned in and sighed.

He felt like nothing in his whole life had ever been as real as this.

Then they heard footsteps on the other side of the kitchens, near the east doors, and they broke apart. Baz thought for one terrified moment that Simon would look horrified or disgusted. But instead Simon only grinned slightly, grabbed Baz’s arm, and scrambled up, staying ducked down below the metal-topped prep islands. They managed to sneak out without Cook or any of her minions catching them. (Which was a really good thing, since Cook could hold a grudge forever, and there was a certain incident with a wand and a microwave that Baz knew she wasn’t forgetting any time soon.)

And they managed to sneak back up to their dorm room, where Simon immediately proceeded to kiss him _again,_ almost before they were through the door. This time no one walked in to interrupt.

A couple of hours and a nap and a ridiculous amount of snogging later, Baz lay on his bed, sun falling across his face, thinking idly of how they should probably get up, the Christmas Day feast and all. And how it all sounded like a terrible idea, if it meant Simon had to move out of his arms.

“But….” Simon lifted his head from Baz’s chest and spoke suddenly, as if it had never occurred to him before, “you breathe.”

“Ever observant,” Baz said, but his eyes were closed and his voice was completely without edge.

“But—” Simon blinked, and splayed a hand out over the bare skin, right over Baz’s heart. “And you have a heartbeat.”

Baz could see where this was going now, but he was too lazy to do anything but nod. And listen to it, to his heartbeat, against Simon’s warm palm. ( _Enjoy it while you can,_ the back of his brain was telling him. Any minute now they’d start fighting again, or Simon would remember Agatha, or how much Baz despised the Mage, or… or something. It was always _something._ )

“So… vampires aren’t undead?”

Baz gave a gusty, dramatic sigh. “Too many horror films, Snow,” he said, but he kept his tone only mildly bitchy, because Simon had grown up gandry—in the non-magical world, surrounded by non-magicians—and so it wasn’t entirely his fault.

“You said you’d let me help you.”

“I did,” Baz had to admit.

“So—I need to know things, then.”

Baz shifted, restlessly. “If you’d just listen in class….”

“Well, I thought I’d get it from the source. Original research,” Simon said lightly, resting his chin on Baz’s sternum. It poked, Baz squirmed; Simon raised up and moved a hand underneath as padding, still looking up into Baz’s face.

It wasn’t as if Baz had been raised with vampires or anything. Much of what he knew, he’d gotten from the same books as anyone else. And he didn’t particularly want to talk about it; didn’t even know how, to be honest—he had never discussed this with anyone. But he took a breath, and stared at the ceiling, and tried anyway.

“They’re not undead. They’re just… a type of magical creature. They… I’m not like a zombie, or a ghost. I breathe, I have a heartbeat, I grow. Get taller, all that. I’m not stuck as a four-year-old forever, thank Crowley.” Simon was watching him, and trailing his free hand up and down Baz’s ribs, lightly. It was rather distracting.

“I’m colder than normal,” he continued. “I’m… strong. And fast. I heal quickly.” His voice was getting softer and softer, and he closed his eyes. “I need to… to drink every few weeks at least, or I start ‘looking like hell,’ as you so eloquently put it earlier.”

He felt Simon nod his head, then felt fingers touch his forehead, the drying sweat there, and then his lips. “I don’t think you’re cold.”

_You are clearly already biased,_ Baz thought, and shivered a little at the notion. _Really? Already?_

“And as for blood,” Simon said, and his voice didn’t stutter or hesitate over the word; Baz opened his eyes and looked at him, and saw a gleam in his eye, “want to help me hunt some more rabbits?”

Baz stared at him for a long moment, then flipped them over and kissed him as hard as he could, Simon laughing and protesting into his mouth.

It wasn’t Baz’s fault that Simon had to go and change _everything._ But Baz would be double-damned if he wasn’t going to hold onto that change for as long as he could.

Even if it made his chest feel strange inside—unbearably soft, absolutely malleable.

When Baz was very small, he used to watch Nanny Trillian knit: the flicker of her needles, how one long string of wool became a sweater or a sock, a scarf or a shawl. His favorite part was when she made a mistake, or decided to redo part of a project. She would slide the needles out and then let him pull on the yarn, which would run back and forth down the fabric in a fascinating and strangely satisfying way, making a soft _thup-thup-thup_ sound, unraveling so quickly into a pile of easily-tangled wool. And then slowly knit back up, rewoven into something new.

Inside, all down his core, he felt like that yarn, unraveling. And it was terrifying. But he decided to let it happen anyway.

And that _was_ his fault.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> You can blame [madamewhitecake](http://madamewhitecake.tumblr.com) for this one; I [certainly do.](http://deservingporcupine.tumblr.com/post/77814761443/but-what-happened-to-baz) (That second link is a bit spoilery -- just a warning.)


	2. found out

Of course, they couldn’t keep it to themselves forever.

The last day of winter hols, Baz and Simon discovered that the sigil on the drawbridge turned out to summon a huge, rabbit-shaped water demon. They did finally manage to kill it, but not before its death throes flung Baz into the moat. The good news was that this washed off most of the blood (pale blue blood, with an aftertaste almost like salt-water taffy), and the merwolves left him alone for some reason.

He dragged himself halfway up the shore in time to see the water rabbit’s body dissolve, oozing down into the slushy ground, and leaving behind something small and made of stone—a tiny bowl? Simon snatched it up and tried to help Baz clamber the rest of the way out of the moat, but tripped in the process and fell right on top of Baz, on the edge of the bank.

“Snow, if you could kindly refrain from trying to crush me to death…” Baz began, breathlessly, but Simon was laughing, and pulling Baz to his feet, and then tugging him closer by his algae-stained tie, and Baz quit complaining.

“I thought you said swimming in the moat was a bad idea?” Simon leaned closer, face tipped up, grinning. The tie was still wrapped around his hand. Baz, dripping wet and stinking with chilly, stagnant moat water, opened his mouth to answer, but another voice did it for him.

“It _is_ a bad idea. A _terrible_ idea. How are you not eaten right now?”

It was Penelope Bunce, gaping at them, her cat-eye glasses glinting in the afternoon light. Penelope and— _dammit_ —Agatha, too; both standing there in long, dark school coats, staring, next to a couple of suitcases. They must’ve come back early, on the bus from the village. And now…. Baz wondered how long they’d been standing there, how much they’d seen.

“First of all, what was that? Second of all, what was that?” Agatha gestured first to the ground where the rabbit had dissolved, and then to the two of them, still standing rather close together. Simon stuck his muddy hands in his pockets but did not otherwise move; it was Baz who stepped (he wouldn’t say _flinched_ ) a little away.

“It was an _aqualapine_ ,” said Penelope, because she never could resist answering a question. “But what was it doing here? They’re not even from this plane—” She looked at Simon, looked at Baz, looked at Simon _and_ Baz, and did _not_ answer the second question.

Baz almost wanted to laugh. Penelope already knew, did she? Or at least suspected. Well, he couldn’t deny that she was clever. She had always been far and away his most serious competition when it came to marks.

But Agatha clearly wasn’t stupid either, looking between the two of them, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her hand was clutching at the little shoulder bag she always carried—the one that held her magic mirror. As if she was tempted to draw it.

Baz looked steadily at her, and his wand hand twitched.

But Agatha nodded, once, then took the telescoping handle of her suitcase and pulled it after her, quickly, past them and over the drawbridge. Her blonde hair blew out behind her like a curtain of sunlight.

“Agatha,” Simon began, and concern and affection were woven so densely in his voice that Baz’s stomach dropped right out of his body, but she didn’t stop or turn, just continued through the archway, into the fortress.

They all watched her go, and then Penelope looked at the boys, and after Agatha again. She sighed, scratched at her head (her red hair was done up in long braids wound around it), and took hold of her own suitcase. She looked at Simon and Baz and jabbed a finger in the air at them. “We _will_ be talking about that _aqualapine,_ ” she informed them, and then headed off after her roommate.

Baz flexed his hands, willing them to relax. Simon heaved out a long breath, and Baz glanced at him. He looked so relieved—glad that nobody got cursed, most likely. Baz thought they could probably keep it that way. Now that break was over.

He had thought… he’d thought he’d have at least one more day, though.

He felt—as though his skin ached, but it wasn’t as if he’d been injured, in spite of the water-demon. His throat hurt suddenly, felt thick and raw, but he swallowed it down, and figured he could at least finish all this with his dignity intact.

“Well,” he said, and was pleased to find that his voice was reasonably steady, “that’s that, then. It’s been….” But he couldn’t finish that sentence, or look Simon in the eye, so he turned towards the Veiled Forest, stuffed his fists into his pockets, and started walking.

For a moment he thought Simon would actually be sensible and leave him _alone_ , for _once_ , in all the time since they’d met, _just leave me alone, don’t let’s_ talk _about it, just let me go sit in my tree and try to breathe, for Crowley’s sake,_ but it was too much to ask, apparently, and after a few seconds there were footsteps rushing up behind him. Simon was protesting; Baz’s ears were pounding and he didn’t really hear properly. He wanted to cut Simon off, but his throat was hurting again and he couldn’t quite speak, so he just kept walking, towards _his_ oak, his favorite, a few yards inside the edge of the forest, perfect for climbing, with the most wonderful wide branches and crooks for sitting in. (He’d found it his first month at Watford, and he visited it regularly. No one knew about it—except Simon, now. He’d shown it to him the day after Christmas. Like a gift. Should have known better.)

They were at the tree-line when Simon grabbed his upper arm, and Baz rounded on him, snarling. “What do you _want_ , Snow?”

Simon narrowed his eyes at him. “What is _wrong_ with you?” Baz could feel his face twitch slightly _(where would you like to start the list?)_ , but Simon didn’t seem to notice. “Bill Butler _Yeats_ , Baz, you’re soaking wet, it’s _cold_ out here, where on earth are you going?”

Now that Simon mentioned it… Baz realized he was shaking all over, no doubt from the chill of the water. Wet jumpers, even wool, could only do so much. He felt profoundly stupid, which only irritated him further. “Don’t trouble yourself, Snow, there’s no need to pretend you care anymore. Trot on back to the dorms and see your friends, there’s a good chap.” _Chap?_ And now he was babbling like some ancient school novel. Why couldn’t he just shut up?

“What are you on about?” Simon looked completely bewildered, and if Baz sighed any harder he’d end up light-headed.

“Just,” and Baz kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, “now that your girlfriend’s back, you should go and greet her properly.”

For one long moment, Simon gaped at him. Then he said, “Baz—she’s not my girlfriend.”

“What?” Baz’s teeth were starting to chatter a little, and he wrapped his arms around himself. He felt as if he were trying to stop from shaking apart. Which was irrational. It’s not _that_ cold, he told himself.  

Simon eyed him, grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to the foot of a tree— _my_ tree, thought Baz, looking up—and pulled out his wand, muttering. In a moment he had summoned a pile of wood, and was frowning, trying to light it.

“Oh, let me,” Baz groused, shoving him over a little, and lighting it himself; Simon would either take so long about it that Baz would freeze to death first, or burn down the whole forest in the attempt. You could never tell which with Simon.

The heat felt good on his stiff-cold hands and face, and Baz crouched, crowding closer to the fire than was probably strictly wise. He stared at the heart of it, at the glowing red beading across the bark, and did not look up, even when Simon said, “She’s not.”

Simon waited, then said, “Agatha. She’s not my girlfriend. I mean, she’s my friend, and she’s a girl, but….”

Baz rolled his eyes, and turned to warm his back a little. “Oh, come off it, Snow.” (Baz might refer to him as Simon in his mind now, but he never forgot to call him _Snow_ aloud.) “Everyone knows about the two of you.”

“There’s nothing to know—”

Baz scoffed. “What about the ball last year? And you spend every waking minute with the two of them….”

“Yet you’re not accusing me of dating Penelope?” Simon sounded amused.

Baz waved a hand dismissively. “She’s far too clever for you, Snow.”

“Well.” Simon clearly couldn’t argue. “But still. We’re not.”

Baz turned around again, glared at him with narrowed eyes.

“We’ve never even been on a date, Baz,” Simon told him, insistently. ( _Neither have we_ , popped into Baz’s head. _Unless you count hare slaying._ But if that sort of thing counted, well, then Simon had probably been on dozens of dates with Agatha, and with Penelope too, for that matter.) “And we’ve never,” here Simon blushed, “ _kissed_ or anything. We’re _not_ dating.”

“Does _she_ know that?”

Simon didn’t answer for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows and blinked at Baz. “Are you jealous?” Baz sneered. “You _are_ ,” Simon said, but his tone was more wondering than mocking.

“Shut it, Snow.”

“You are,” said Simon, firmly. “But… I thought you knew. What, did you think I was cheating on her all this time?”

He sounded indignant, and Baz resisted the urge to rake his fingers down his own face. _Well, I tried not to think about it at all, you idiot,_ he thought.It was one thing to _be_ a temporary stand-in, a short-term ally, a convenient snog, and quite another to _dwell_ on the fact….

“‘All this time’ being a week and a half,” was all Baz muttered aloud.

“Still,” said Simon. “If you didn’t care before… _did_ you care before?” Baz clenched his jaw, refusing to answer on the grounds that he was _absolutely not_ going to talk about his own patheticness: that part of him couldn’t have cared less, that as far as Simon was concerned, he’d take whatever he could get, for as long as he could get it; but he didn’t have to admit it. Simon waited, but then finally said, slowly, “If you didn’t care before, what’s the big concern now?”

Baz turned his head and stared in disbelief. “Are you… are you really asking me, ‘why now?’ Because the hols are _over,_ you brainless prat. Everyone else will be back tomorrow. And I thought… and your friends hate me, and mine hate you, and how is any of this possibly going to end well?”

“They don’t hate you.”

Baz looked at him skeptically.

“Only because you’ve always hated me,” Simon said.

Without thinking, Baz said, “I don’t hate you.”

Simon grinned, wide, as if Baz had given the game away somehow.

Baz felt his cheeks burning, but pretended it was from the fire. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’ll help you with the rabbits now. You don’t need me anymore.”

Simon’s grin fell. “Do you not want to help?”

“I—I didn’t say that,” said Baz, finally. He stared at the flames, where the wood popped and spit. “I just….” He swallowed hard, and kept his eyes on the fire, avoiding Simon’s.

“Just what?”

Baz put his forehead onto his pulled up knees. “I just don’t know if I can give everything up,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “Even for you.”

“What do you mean, give everything up?”

“Just… my friends. And my father—Crowley, if he hears about this… I don’t know if I can….” _Why is my life is such a disaster,_ he thought. He looked up suddenly and fairly snarled, “And if you think that makes me a coward or a bloody weakling or something, Snow, you can get stuffed, you can just go f—”

“ _Baz._ ” Simon reached over and grabbed the sleeve of Baz’s jumper, and shook him slightly. Baz looked down at Simon’s fist, clenched around the damp, dark green wool. He realized that he was almost panting and tried to take a few deep breaths. _I used to sneer and drawl at him when I got angry,_ he thought, unwillingly. _When did that change?_

“I don’t want you to give up your friends,” said Simon, carefully. “Why would I want that?”

The burning wood crackled. Baz forgot that he was avoiding Simon’s eyes, and stared.

He had never thought that… this, whatever this was, whatever they had, if it was anything… well, he’d never thought it would exist at all. He certainly hadn’t thought that it could exist outside the bubble of winter break, protected by the isolation, by getting to just be alone, without people around, _watching_ all the time. Saying, you’re a Pitch, and he’s the Mage’s Heir, and what do you think you’re doing? Even the people who knew him. Especially the people who knew him. The weight of what they thought they knew about him—sometimes it was like stones, around his neck, piled on his chest, crushing the breath out of him, burying him where no one could reach.

Simon just looked back, blue eyes clear and puzzled, gnawing slightly on his lower lip. “I mean,” he said, hesitantly, “I can’t say as I’m very fond of Malcolm.”

Baz said nothing, but couldn’t contain a wince. Malcolm Madder had been a bully ever since they were children, and he’d only gotten more vicious of late. He’d never been the most willing follower, either, and when this came out….

“Sorry,” Simon said. “I really don’t… Dev and Niall and Alan all seem all right. And anyway it’s not… they’re your _friends_. It’s not up to me who you talk to, who you… tell things.” He frowned. “I’m not going to force you to… to anything, Baz. And we don’t have to let anybody know anything right now. If you don’t want to.”

“Too late.” Baz jerked his head back toward the fortress, the drawbridge.

“It’s just Penny and Agatha. They’re my friends. They won’t tell anyone anything if… if you don’t want them to.”

Baz took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his still wet hair, pushing it away from his face. “Maybe. Depending on how much they disapprove, I’d say.”

“I’m not saying they’ll be happy at first….”

Baz snorted. “Agatha certainly didn’t look very happy.”

“I’ll talk to her.” Simon shrugged. “I mean, nothing’s certain, but I imagine they’ll all probably get over it. Eventually.”

_I don’t understand you,_ Baz thought. How he could just shrug, as if it were light, the weight of all those people staring, the stones around his neck? _I don’t know if I’ll ever understand you._

Finally, Baz said, with a weak attempt at casualness, “I think Dev fancies Agatha.”

Simon laughed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Again, Baz responded without thinking. “Not me.”

“Not me, either,” said Simon, with a funny sort of half-smile.

They sat in silence for another minute. The heat was making Baz’s clothes stink with the moat water, a fetid, marshy smell, and they stuck to his skin unpleasantly. He stood and waved his wand, extinguishing the fire. It was time to go back to the dorm, and see if by some miracle his green-and-blue-mucked shirt could be salvaged.

They walked back, rather close together, their shoulders bumping every other step or so. Simon’s pinky brushed the back of Baz’s hand a couple of times.

“I do still need you, Baz,” Simon said when they were almost to the drawbridge, so softly that it was almost a whisper.

Baz heard it, though, and said nothing, but he couldn’t stop his breath from hitching in his chest. _Crowley,_ he thought, gritting his teeth. _Crowley, Hennings, Yeats and Gunne, I am so doomed._

 


	3. in the cathedral

 

“Why is it called the cathedral, anyway?” Simon asked in a whisper.

Baz rolled his eyes. It was a Saturday morning, just before dawn, as they crept through the eerily silent doors of the cathedral. There was barely a hint of lightening sky through the tall windows that lined the main room—the nave, Baz’s mind provided absently—and it was very dim and shadowy. (Though Baz could see just fine, of course. But the shadows were really very _oddly_ shadowy.)

“It's not though, it's not nearly big enough to be a cathedral, cathedrals are huge.”

Baz sighed. “Yes, Snow, I'm very glad that you've studied medieval architecture, now hush.”

He should have known better than to ask the impossible, really. “It's just a chapel, really, so why would we call it a cathedral?” Simon continued muttering, as he peeked behind pews, checking to be sure no one was there.

He wasn't wrong, Baz had to admit to himself. But. "Maybe it's just the design," he offered.

From the outside, it did look much like a cathedral in miniature, nearly perfect. Flying buttresses (though surely such a thing was structurally unnecessary for such a small building), bells up in the towers, small gargoyles watching them from high on the walls, the intricate stained-glass windows of course—the whole reason they were here.

And it did echo strangely inside, more than you would expect, even with the high ceilings and all the stone surfaces. There was something odd about the heavy arches, something off in the inner proportions—how high _was_ that ceiling? how long _was_ the aisle exactly, before the altar and curtained mirror next to it at the end? Sometimes there was a telescoping feeling, something that made Baz slightly dizzy if he turned quickly… magic, he thought. Who could tell. He didn’t spend that much time here, apart from the obligatory rituals and gatherings. He did know there was an entrance to the catacombs in the corner, behind the mirror and the screens at the east end, under the rosette window….

Simon came back from looking behind those screens. “No one here,” he said, still quietly. The stillness _was_ a bit daunting.

That was why they had come this early, of course. It had taken a whole week and a half of classes in the new term before they had any opportunity to come investigate the stained-glass hare. A week and a half of Simon fidgeting about getting on with the hare-hunting. A week and a half of… oddness.

Simon must have spoken to Penelope and Agatha, because Baz had heard not a breath of a rumor about “Pitch and Snow” or anything related to it. He caught both girls staring at him occasionally in the dining hall—across the dining hall, since he and Simon didn’t sit together now or anything. Penelope mostly looked thoughtful; Agatha mostly looked suspicious. Baz mostly tried to ignore it all, to pretend, in public, that nothing had changed.

No one else seemed to suspect anything different between them. Though Professor Chilblains had seemed pleased with their latest joint assignments in chemistry class and had made a comment about “finally working better together, it’s certainly long overdue.”

Things weren’t really that different. And also they completely were. They still sniped at each other in class, but it was more good-humored, more of a challenge, less of an attack. Simon tried not to mention Baz’s father, and Baz tried not to mention the Mage (and where was he, anyway? no one had seen him since the hols ended).

When Sir Bleakley went on one of his rants about the evils of vampires in Magickal Historie lessons, Baz set his face blankly, as always—but now Simon would scoot surreptitiously closer, till their thighs pressed together, or even gently put a hand on Baz’s knee under the table. The first time it happened, Baz froze, not quite knowing what to do. The fourth time it happened (Sir Bleakley was rather prone to ranting), Baz took a breath and carefully snuck his right hand under the table, while he continued pretending to take notes with his left. Simon grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. Baz let him keep holding it till the bells rang for the end of the lesson, and concentrated on trying not to lean into Simon’s shoulder too conspicuously.

They were taking other things a bit slowly. Baz couldn’t risk losing control of his fangs, or anything else, especially in the room. There was the Anathema to consider, he pointed out to Simon, who got that frown-crease between his eyes but nodded. (In fact, Baz just couldn’t risk _Simon_ … he had already had three terrible nightmares where he’d ripped into Simon’s throat, and then woken thrashing in pure, gasping horror, alone in his bed. He’d had to check on Simon across the room—no smell of blood, no wounds, just his usual snoring into his filthy pillowcase; _Crowley, Snow, wash your sheets already_ —and then retreat, to the common area down the hall, or sneaking out to the stables or the bell tower or down to the catacombs. Somewhere else, anywhere else, while he tried to banish the fear and the images from his mind.)

And then Simon had showed him the mysterious notes, about finding the white hares on the Watford grounds, about danger.

_So here we are,_ thought Baz, peering around the cathedral once more, as he approached Simon, who stood in the middle of the aisle, peering up at one of the windows in a southeastern alcove, near the front altar.

“There,” said Simon, pointing, as Baz came up behind him. Baz just nodded, tipping his head back to study the window.

It was a wide, arched section near the top—green hills with windmills in the background and a rising sun, flowers and vines along the edges—and a leaping white rabbit across the foreground, surrounded by white swirls of mist or breeze. There was illegibly ornate writing along the bottom. The whole scene was just beginning to brighten with the dawn, the opaque white milky and opalescent, the reds and blues and greens vivid and glowing.

Simon looked at Baz. “Ready?” Baz nodded, and Simon stepped back.

At least Baz had managed to convince Simon that they should do at least a modicum of research in advance, for a change. They had a few options to try. Baz pointed his wand up at the window and said, _“Whistle down the wind.”_ He waited, a little anxiously. This was an old phrase, not much in use anymore; perhaps it had lost all potency as a spell. Behind him, Simon softly whistled a few falconer’s calls. It might not help, but then again....

A few bright rays of dawn light peeked over the edge of the window and through it, lighting up the stained-glass scene. It began to glow, brighter than any of the other windows, even the ones directly next to it.

Baz took a step back, bumping into Simon.

The light glowed brighter, then fell, like a slanted column, a spot-light, full of sparkles, down to the flagstone floor in front of them, and a figure appeared—a hare, white-gold and glimmering, sitting up on its hind legs, stretched long and thin and looking 'round. It was large—about as tall as Simon, but not nearly as huge nor as bulky as the other two had been. It looked very nearly delicate, misleadingly so, like one of the sighthounds in the stables… and it was transparent. Baz could see the pews through it, through the spiraling glints of golden dust within the hare’s outline.

Simon smoothly shouldered his way just in front of Baz, wand clutched in one hand, his right hovering over his left hip. “What are your intentions?” he asked in a ringing voice. Simon always insisted on asking this first, though it had been pointless thus far. Baz couldn't decide whether it made him want to kiss the git, or to smack him.

The hare cocked its head, looking at them curiously out of one gleaming black eye, then dropped down onto its haunches, shaking its long ears briskly before looking at them again.

There was a sound, so odd that it made Baz shake his own head. It was like wind chimes, a mix of ringing and tinkling and the sound of the breeze itself shaking the chimes—and it felt like it was in his ears and inside his head at the same time. It left a lingering sense that he couldn’t trust his own hearing.

Simon was grimacing, one hand on his head. “Baz, do you hear that?”

“Yes,” Baz answered. It wasn’t an _unpleasant_ sensation, just deeply unnerving.

_“Freeeee…”_ sighed the sound. The voice. It tinkled, chimed again, and this time Baz realized that was laughter, of all things.

He and Simon glanced at one another. Baz resettled his grip on his wand, and Simon said again, firmly, “What are your intentions, then? Now that you’re... free.”

_“My intentionsss...”_ its voice trailed off into a long sigh. Speaking words, it had less chiming and more of the sound of air rustling. “ _Yesss. I will find the othersss. But first.”_

It moved closer, just one lolloping rabbit-step, though strangely graceful, as if it wasn’t really touching the ground at all. Then it peered again, first out of one eye, then the other. “ _You have freed me,”_ it said. _“I owe you a debt.”_

“Oh Yeats,” Baz muttered. Because that sort of thing never ended badly, with fairies and demons and genii….

Simon was obviously thinking along the same lines. “I’m not sure that’s necessary—”

_“I can See things for you,”_ the hare said in a magnanimous tone, clearly not listening. _“There will be something.”_

“What?”

It took another undulating half-hop forward, the light moving with it as if a spot-light were trained on it; still lazily, but Baz and Simon both stepped back. _“Shh. No need to fear, children, the future can be readily seen, if not commanded.”_

Baz raised an eyebrow, consideringly, but Simon quickly said, “I don’t think we need—”

_“It is a debt,”_ the hare said, transparent nose twitching as it lowered its head to the ground.

“Well…” Simon glanced at Baz, but he could only shrug. “Well, you—you don't have, um, an object for us, maybe? There was a key, and a cup....”

Sudden silence, sudden stillness. The hare didn’t move, not even an ear-twitch, for such a long moment that Baz began to feel nervous. Then it spoke again, very softly.

_“A key? A cup?”_

Baz grabbed Simon's arm before he could speak, and shook his head just slightly. The skin on the back of his neck was prickling, all down his spine. Danger, danger....

And then the hare was suddenly _levitating_ , floating up off the ground like it had forgotten how to act like a normal rabbit, and the rabbit-shaped outline seemed to be growing dimmer. Air was moving, ruffling Simon’s pale coppery curls, blowing Baz’s black hair across his face. A low sound started, a wailing that grew and grew, like the wind among the trees out in the Forest, like the old air raid siren that Watford sometimes still used for emergency drills.

_“Where are my siblings?”_

Baz tried to pull Simon surreptitiously toward the door.

_“Where? Where?”_ The wailing drew the words out longer. The hare was barely visible now—the light in the room was bright and diffused, the hare grown so transparent that only the bright, rapidly swirling golden dust seemed to indicate its location—and that swirl was darting wildly about in front of them, around and back, like a flock of birds turning and flitting through the air. Baz didn’t know where to watch, where to look….

“I'm sorry,” Simon said, and Crowley if he didn't sound sincere. “They... they didn't say anything, they just tried to kill us. The Moon Rabbit only screeched at the sky when I tried to talk to it.”

_“Lies, liesss,”_ the wind-voice hissed. _“Tell me the truth!”_

“Snow, come _on,_ let’s just—”

“It _is_ the truth,” Simon insisted, hands on hips, instead of fleeing like a normal person.

_“Lies,”_ it said again, and suddenly Baz felt a terrible pain in his head, a pressure that made his knees buckle with the suddenness of it. Next to him, Simon cried out, and stumbled as well.

But he _knew_ this pain, like seeing a long-forgotten face. He hadn't felt it for years (since he was four, in the dim school nursery; a rough, implacable hand on his shoulder, pain in the side of his neck, glowing eyes before him, ordering him to _drink this now_ and a foul taste in his mouth), not for years... but he wasn't liable to forget, was he.

Though not exactly the same—this was less a compulsion, and more like someone dragging a book out of your hands and tearing frantically through the pages. He was overwhelmed with emotions not his own—fear, urgency, anger, with a vast underlying loneliness that made him want to stagger. As unnaturally vivid as a film, memories of their battles with the other two hares splashed across his mind’s eye (shrieking giant hares, fear and adrenaline and Simon shouting about _intentions_ and _we’re not here to hurt you,_ great Keats and Shelley, Baz had forgotten that bit). He could even see… was that _Simon’s_ memories of fighting them as well?

Baz couldn’t tell how long it lasted—seconds? minutes?—but just as suddenly he was released and gasping, huddling on the floor. Simon was next to him, struggling to sit up, as air still whipped around them, a tiny storm.

The wind hare was moaning now, wuthering, like some bloody Brontë novel, and they may have all been magicians, but Anne was the only sensible one... Now isn't the time for literary criticism, Pitch, he told himself, not when that voice was keening, but with words...

_“Dead, murdered, how, how, how could you, you're just_ children, _we are ancient, even penned for centuries by that damnable wizard, how could this happen…”_

“I’m sorry,” Simon said, even as he tried to help Baz sit up. “You saw. I did try.”

_“How, how, how…”_

“Maybe, after centuries, they… forgot how to talk,” Baz said, just to say _something_ , as he elbowed Simon and tried to signal him wordlessly to draw his bloody _sword,_ did the boy have no sense _at all?_

_“Never_ , _”_ the voice snarled, ringing discordant and awful now. It seemed to come from all around them at once, and Baz couldn’t see the golden storm of dust… and where had he dropped his wand? _“Never, you must have done something… I would never forget speech, speech is air, is breath, is life… what did you do?”_

Another dig into Baz's head—gods, it felt like a fist grabbing behind his eyes and wrenching. Again, the battles with the other two hares flashed rapidly before him (no hint of Simon’s memories this time, and he could, distantly, feel Simon shaking his arm and shouting, but he couldn’t respond), and then a flare of irritation from the hare, and it began rifling deeper, through other memories, flicking through them almost too quickly for Baz to register… it was so strange, memories, especially old ones, that were normally faded and vague, but now suddenly springing to disconcerting life in his head... Father, frowning and shaking his head over some infraction, his disapproval like a hook in Baz’s five-year-old throat; leaning against his tree, unobserved, watching Niall and Dev laughing and wrestling over something on the Great Lawn, a strange mix of relief and wistfulness in his chest; little Arachne, his sister, newborn and fussy and fascinating, and he was too afraid to hold her, he might _hurt_ her…; breaking Simon’s nose last year, that give of bone, that vicious satisfaction, that flood of shame; and… oh gods… her face, Mother’s face, he—he’d forgotten, and this was vivid and real in a way that the photograph he kept hidden under his pillow at home could never—

It was all too much, and he kicked, mentally. The pain in his head suddenly dulled to a vague ache, though Baz was still unable to pull away, or to speak, or to move much. _Oh, so you_ can _do this without feeling like you’re ripping the top of my head off,_ Baz groused inwardly.

Unexpectedly, he got a reply. _Of course I can,_ and it was accompanied by a vague unease. _I was in a hurry before._ The feeling of urgency had died down, and was replaced by some puzzlement. _How strange you are, vampire-child, all wound about with fate…. And your threads are faint._

_What threads, what are you talking about?_ Baz growled, still struggling futilely.

_Threads_ , it said. _Like so._ Baz got a sudden mental image: threads, strings, tied to him like a web, each connecting—connecting to others. There was Niall, and Dev, his father, his little sister and brother, his stepmother, his Grimm cousins… other students, teachers….

_Is this a metaphor,_ he demanded, sourly, and got a shrug-feeling back.

_Mostly_ , it said, and shifted in his mind, with a feeling like plucked harp strings. Baz hadn't played harp in ages, but it thrummed similarly through his head, individual notes. It wasn't painful, exactly, but the reverberations were overwhelming, the more so because… because he always tried so hard to handle them gingerly, distantly…. Everything was safer that way, especially because no one… knew. About him. Still, the connections were there: his family, deep and complex; his friends, cherished if dim; and… and _him,_ Simon, who was more than a thread—he was a cord, a cable, and when the hare shifted again and strummed it, it _sang_ through him like a gorgeous chord, harmony that made him feel like he was soaring…. Baz clutched his head.

_Well, well,_ well, said the hare, its tone sly and calculating, and began to shift again, reach to try again, and suddenly Baz was livid.

_Get out, get OUT._ Baz _pushed_ —he could almost feel his eyes starting to glow. He _shoved,_ and the dull pain, the feeling of invasion behind his eyes, receded.

Suddenly Baz could breathe, and sit up, and look around. Could see above them, where the specks of gold were buzzing like angry insects.

_“How did you...”_ The hare’s voice was outwardly audible again, and rather taken aback.

“Baz!” Simon’s hands were on his shoulders. “Did you just throw it off?”

“Apparently?” Baz avoided looking into Simon’s eyes. Thrall fighting thrall was all very well, but Baz had never used it before, and he wasn’t about to start now with an accident….

_“I am out of practice,”_ the hare sneered. Its tone turned gloating, glorying in revealing a great secret. _“And your_ roommate _, who is a_ vampire _, a monster himself—”_

Simon interrupted, looking utterly unimpressed. “I know, and no, he's not.”

_“You... know.”_ It faltered, crestfallen, disappointed, like a gossip whose news is old hat, then rallied, its voice hardening, hissing. _“No matter.”_

An explosion of air, and suddenly Baz was five feet away, skidding across the floor to the foot of the large covered mirror by the head altar. Papers—pages torn from some of the songbooks and hymnals in the pews—fluttered down around him. He sat up, dizzy. “Simon?”

Simon was across the aisle, scrambling to his feet, sword _finally_ in hand, but the air was full of sharp, splintering laughter.

_“And what about you, oh golden boy, oh chosen one....”_ The hare, or the haze it seemed to be made up of now, descended on him—he swung his sword, but it laughed as the blade passed right through it, no more effective than against a cloud. _“Foolish,”_ it sneered, and wrapped itself around his head, an eddy of golden glittering mist through which Baz could see Simon's face, shocked and wide-eyed.

Baz tried to pull himself up, but stumbled when the heavy brocade cloth he was grasping slid off the face of the mirror and to the floor. He was up again in a moment, and running over, but almost as quickly, the hare squealed, recoiling away as Simon staggered.

_“Echhh,”_ it spat, swarming and hissing around him. _“What are you, what_ are _you, you taste like sand and death, rotting soil, you leech, you locust, you cuckoo's egg, sheep-clothed wolf, poor pathetic thing, as well none of them know….”_

“What are you talking about?” snapped Simon, swinging his sword yet again, straight through the center of the cloud, but still ineffectually.

“I don’t think it likes the taste of your brain, Snow,” Baz drawled, pressing his back to Simon’s as they tried to anticipate and dodge the roiling golden haze. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my wand?”

“Just use mine,” Simon said, and pressed it into Baz’s hand without even looking.

“This is _not_ going to work,” Baz muttered (his own brain felt a little broken—no one just _offered_ up their wand for someone else to use; it was all but taboo to even touch another magician’s instrument, even with permission…), but flicked it. A blue fireball burst into his hand with no problem, though it had no effect when he shot it at the hare.

“Any ideas, here?” Simon asked.

“For fighting an incorporeal ancient monster rabbit? Not a one.”

Simon stabbed and swung, Baz sent every offensive spell he could think of, but nothing seemed to make a difference. The hare was wailing again, flurrying around them like a snowstorm, the sound like an ill-hinged gate. Baz thought there were words, but it was ranting, and mostly nonsensically, about heat and death and vengeance.

_“Doomed. Cursed,”_ he finally heard it say, and he whirled, to sketch a protective ward with the wand, onto Simon’s back, and then onto his own chest. He was very quick (he’d only been practicing them for five years), but the hare began to laugh, hollow, echoing. It sounded nothing like a chime any more.

_“Not cursed by me,”_ it said suddenly, clearly. _“This was upon you long before.”_ It was suddenly all around them again, a miasma of white light and gold flecks. _“Perhaps this will be kinder,”_ it said, sounding almost thoughtful. Cold wind began to swirl around them violently, tearing at Baz’s breath, whipping his hair into his face.

And then Simon was dropping the Sword of Mages, and choking.

“Simon?” Baz caught and lowered him before he could collapse to the ground, wheezing and twitching.

_Yes,_ said the voice, almost dreamily, and it was in his head again, though softly. _Kinder this way._

“Don’t give me that shite,” Baz hissed at it. “Come on, Simon, Simon, please breathe.” He batted a hand at the haze around them, but he could only watch as Simon struggled to suck in air, clutching weakly at his throat. How could _this_ be better than anything…?

_Well,_ it allowed. _Maybe kinder for you._

_NO,_ Baz said, screamed mentally at the hare. He couldn’t think, but if it was stealing his breath… he tipped Simon’s head back slightly, pinched his nose and sealed his mouth over Simon’s, blowing in. Simon’s chest rose, but he still gasped and choked, and his blue eyes were panicked.

Baz did it again, while shrieking internally at the hare: _Stop, stop, just take mine instead, blame me, go on, I’m the one who killed the others, I_ drank _them, it’s my fault they’re dead—_

He could feel the hare’s rage spike, but it said, _You… not you…._

_Why not me?_ He blew another breath into Simon’s lungs.

_Won’t work on you._

_What?? Why not?_ Vampires breathe, he thought wildly, I breathe, come on Simon, come _on_.

The only reply was an abrupt flurry of many-colored lights all around them for a moment.

_What—_ Baz began to think, to say, when suddenly there was shouting by the door.

It was Penelope and Agatha. They were doing something with the ground that seemed to involve placing stones in a circle, and then Penelope was shouting about _“caught between a rock and a hard place”_ and a lot of other things that Baz thought he should probably listen to more closely, but Simon—Simon was still _choking,_ and his lips were turning blue, and Baz breathed into his mouth again, but….

Then the wind around them subsided somewhat, and Baz looked up to see the hare sitting in Penelope’s circle of stones, transparent but decidedly rabbit-shaped, growling and hissing at them. And most importantly, Simon was _breathing—_ gasping and coughing really, but his chest was moving up and down on its own and that was all Baz really cared about.

Agatha was brandishing her mirror, and the hare was staring at it, crouched in its glowing beam of light again, and trembling, but more with anger than fear, Baz could still feel. It seemed to be wriggling, as if in a snare, and what would happen when it broke free?

“Basil!” shouted Penelope. He looked up in time to see her toss him another stone, about the size of a cricket ball. She pointed urgently. “The window!”

He turned, and threw the stone as hard as he could through the center of the stained-glass panel. Not the smartest idea, with the girls present, perhaps he should have held back a little, but it did the trick—the leading burst, glass shattered, and the hare screamed.

Baz scuttled back to Simon (he had turned onto his side and was curled up a little, but still breathing, still breathing), but before he could even check on him again, Penelope was shouting, “Over here, Basil. That just made it corporeal, now we’re going to have to fight it.”

Baz swore under his breath—he couldn’t even use his fangs this time, not in front of the girls—and grabbed up Simon’s wand, but by the time he’d hurried the five feet to Penelope’s side, it was clear that something strange was happening.

“Penny?” said Agatha, warily, as they all watched. The hare, transparent no longer, was lying on one side, collapsed and shaking within the stone circle in the aisle. It seemed smaller; its fur was white and highlighted with gold, but it was also wet in patches, and it dripped a dark, shimmering liquid, pooling on the stone floor with a rainbow sheen like an oil leak under a car. It was breathing quick and shivery, whistling like a draught under a door.

Penelope’s eyes were narrowed. “I’m not sure….”

“Magic sword.” Simon’s voice came from close behind them, slightly raspy, and Baz turned so quickly he almost fell. Simon looked dazed and wind-swept but whole. Baz wanted to grab him so badly it made his head swim for a moment.

Penelope sounded nearly as relieved as Baz felt. “Oh, Simon, are you—”

“Fine,” Simon said, and pushed up next to Baz, leaning only a little. He clutched the Sword of Mages in his right hand, and studied the hare where it lay. “I think… I think maybe now that it has physical form… all those hits I landed before are physical as well.”

_“A solid theory.”_ The hare’s voice still had that strange ringing, but it was hollow and weak now, and disrupted by shallow panting.

They stood and watched for a moment, watched its side rise and fall, over and over, far too quickly. Simon looked around at them finally, his face pained, and lifted the sword slightly. “I—I don’t want it to just _suffer…_ should I….”

_“Unnecessary,”_ it said, very faintly.  

Simon looked back down at it again, and nodded solemnly. He knelt down so that his face was nearly the same level as that shining black eye. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “About your… your family. About this.”

Baz twitched. He thought of Simon gasping for breath, and he wasn’t very sorry at all.

_Nor I, vampire-child,_ the hare said into his mind, gently. The fever of rage and madness seemed gone now, and underneath, a chasm of grief and loneliness yawned open. Baz drew back a little, skirting the edge, but did not withdraw entirely.

_A debt,_ it said, its gaze suddenly clear and piercing. Not this again, he thought, but it would not be put off, as stubborn as Simon Snow kneeling by its side, and he didn’t have the heart to refuse, so instead he said, _Yes?_

A long pause, while the hare seemed to look into the far distance, eyes dim and unfocused. _Lost,_ it said to him at last, in a tone that was an odd mixture of smug and regretful. _Doomed, you are. Both. But you. Threads, waiting to pull you down, to choke you._

_They won't,_ he snapped instinctively, angry, a little panicked. _I won't let them._

_Eh,_ it said, shrugging, even its mental voice faint now. It caught his eye once more; briefly, he had the impression of walking through a tattered bead curtain over a doorway, trailing wisps of ribbon and thread and broken strings wafting aimlessly through the air, across his face—and then of the other hares, dead, _gone, gone, gone_. _Untethered can be overrated,_ it said, and then he felt its mind withdraw from his as its eyes closed.

Simon shifted, and Baz laid a careful hand on his shoulder until, a minute later, the hare’s breathing shuddered out, long and slow, and stopped altogether. Simon shuddered too, and Baz squeezed his shoulder.  

Agatha sighed behind them, and asked quietly, “What do we do now? With—”

Baz thought of the water-hare, dissolving into bank of the moat, and of the moon rabbit, catching fire and disappearing. Maybe fire? But before Agatha could even finish, the hare’s body shivered slightly and began to sift down with a whisper, turning into a pile of fine powdered dust within the circle of stones.

“Well,” said Penelope. A faint draught stirred the dust on the floor until a glint of gold could be seen. Simon reached over and plucked it out—a gold feather. They all watched it gleam in silence for a moment.  

“How did you know to come?” Simon said suddenly, into the quiet, looking up at the girls. “I mean, I’m glad you came, you have no idea, but—but _how?”_

“The mirrors,” said Agatha. She gestured toward the large one by the altar, and held up her own. “We were getting ready for breakfast, and mine suddenly showed you, Simon, fighting something invisible. Here, in the cathedral.”

“It didn’t look like it was going very well,” her mirror chimed in, wryly. (Its voice was more crystalline, the whine of a finger on the rim of a goblet. Baz had never been sorry that it didn’t speak often; the sound set his teeth on edge.)

“It wasn’t,” Simon said, clambering to his feet and dusting off his hands on the knees of his trousers.  

“Simon.” Uh-oh. Baz didn’t know Penelope Bunce that well yet, but it didn’t take Simon’s flinch to tell him that that tone of voice did not bode well.

Not to mention the stricken look on her face. “How could you keep this from us, Simon?”

“The note said... that it would be dangerous. And I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

“What _note?”_

Baz sidled over and sat down in one of the pews. He wasn’t _hiding._ He just didn’t much like the idea of being the tallest person in the room right now.

“Just... I don't know who it’s from. It just said to find the white hares—”

Penelope was practically spluttering. “A mysterious note, from an unknown source, and you just go haring off after it, without even telling anyone—”

Baz tried to hide a snicker, mostly unsuccessfully. Not just at the pun.

But Agatha was not unobservant, nor amused. “What’s so bloody funny, Basilton?”

Baz shrugged, languidly. “Just nice to hear that someone else agrees with me about this hare-brained endeavor,” he said. “Crowley knows, Snow doesn't listen when _I_ say it.”

“‘Hare-brained’? That was terrible,” Simon told him. “And I listen to you, Baz—”

“But DANGER.” Penelope was difficult to distract it seemed, when she wanted to be. “It’s all very well to say you want to protect us, but what about _you?”_

Simon hesitated, shrugged. “I have Baz,” he said. “He’s been—I would have died with the very first rabbit if it weren’t for him.”

Baz tried not to flinch. Maybe, he thought. Of course, Simon hadn’t been trying to wake them up then either; maybe he would have been fine. Maybe he would have been safer....

“Well, thank the gods for that,” said Penelope, fervently. “But still, Simon—”

“I haven't even found them all yet, Penny,” said Simon. “There are supposed to be six, and I don’t know—”

“Six?” Agatha gaped. “How many have you faced so far?” She stared accusingly at Baz.

“This was the third,” he answered, when Simon said nothing. When her gaze did not let up, he lifted both hands defensively. “It was Snow’s idea to keep you out of this. Don’t look at me.”

She didn’t just look, she glared. “Isn’t that _Simon’s_ wand, there?”

Baz could feel himself blush. “I—I dropped mine, it’s—it’s here somewhere. This was his idea, as well.”

“Was it, now,” Agatha muttered, but only Baz seemed to hear her.

“And what is _this_ meant to be for?” Penelope mused, picking up the golden feather and turning it over in her hands.

“There’s a key, too,” Simon admitted. “And a cup.”

Penelope demanded to see them, “because we can _help_ you, Simon, you know we can,” while Simon tried to protest, and Agatha seethed quietly and did not, in fact, stop glaring at Baz.

Baz lounged back in the pew and looked pointedly away, up at the window, now shattered. He hoped they would leave before they had to explain _that_ to anyone else.

What did he care about Wellbelove hostility? He was here for Simon, and the three remaining hares, one of which was a complete mystery... or was it.

First the moon hare, and then the water hare, and then this one, made of light, made of air... oh bugger.

Baz broke in suddenly, interrupting their debate over what the objects meant. “What—what were the other hares you’ve found so far, Snow?”

“There’s an old locked book in the Mage’s office,” Simon said. “With a warren of rabbits on the front, in silverwork. And a rabbit-shaped stone in the ritual tower. I don’t know anything about the last one though.”

Stone, too. Which left... Baz could feel himself blanch, feel any color and warmth of exertion drain from his cheeks, leaving him chilled and clammy with sweat. He nodded once, and said, “Ah. Well. I think we’ll definitely be needing more of your help after all, girls.” All three of them looked at him oddly, but he leaned forward and scrubbed at his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Basil, what is it?” Penelope sounded concerned, though Baz couldn’t imagine why.

Baz shook his head a little, and willed his voice not to shake. “Only that we're probably looking for a hare of fire.”

 


	4. the tower

 

The fire hare ( _possible_ fire hare, though Baz tried not to hold out for what was probably false hope) remained a moot point, for now, since even with Penelope and Agatha helping, they couldn't seem to find any sign of it.

“There’s no boiler room in the fortress,” Penelope mused, when they all met up in a corner of the library after class the next week. “I asked Eb _and_ Mrs. Porter.”

“Maybe the kitchens?” offered Simon. “In the ovens?”

“The ovens are all fairly new,” Baz pointed out. Everyone looked at him. “Not _just_ the microwave ovens.” Simon was grinning. “I’m just saying, it’s unlikely there’s an ancient sigil hiding in one of the General Electrics.”

“There are fireplaces all over the fortress, though,” said Agatha.

“Yes, we’ll probably need to check them all,” said Penelope. “I assume you already looked over the big ones in the entrance and the dining hall.” Simon nodded. “Well, let’s just hope that it’s not up in one of the chimneys.”

In the meantime, there was the stone rabbit to deal with.

 

***

 

The ritual tower was the second tallest tower at Watford, and the hare-shaped cobblestone was in the center of the topmost room—a round, strangely airy room for all that it was made entirely of stone. The benches, the ceremonial basin, even the shutters for the glass-less windows were carved delicately out of marble, granite, obsidian, quartz…. Baz wasn’t even sure the shutters _could_ close—he’d never seen the windows anything but open to the elements. It was windy and cold up there at the best of times… and this was February.

(Valentine’s Day had passed, mostly unmarked, the week before. Simon had been gone much of the day with Miss Possibelf because the Mage still hadn’t returned from wherever it was he’d gone during the winter holidays. It was fine; Valentine’s Day was absurd and overrated anyway, and it wasn’t like they could go anywhere or do anything. People would know, and… Baz wasn’t ready for that. Simon had come back in the late afternoon with a worried look around the eyes and hair tousled from scrubbing at it in frustration, Baz knew. He’d made a mental note to figure out a way to casually suggest a neck rub later. _Was_ there a way to casually suggest such a thing? He’d find one.)

(Then, before Astronomy class that evening, Simon pulled Baz into an alcove behind a tapestry and kissed him till Baz’s knees went weak. Not that it took long, but Baz was admitting nothing.)

The ritual they did today, the wind whistling sharp around them, was all too effective. (Thanks to Penelope’s research, no doubt.) As soon as the last word faded from the air, the odd pale stone began to grow and grow, till it was the size of a small rhinoceros, and two long ears flicked up into the air.

The stone rabbit was smooth and chalky white-grey, veined with white and black and green and glittery streaks like mica. It scraped when it moved, grated against the flagstone floor, its joints creaking and groaning like shifting boulders,. But it moved _fast._

It attacked immediately, without a moment’s hesitation, and they were caught off guard. The room was suddenly cramped, with the massive beast in the center, and they scrambled around the edges for some semblance of maneuverability. With Agatha and Penelope there, Baz couldn't try his usual hare-hunting solution, and anyway he wasn't sure his fangs would have made any headway.

It certainly felt all too solid when it spun, catching Baz with its shoulder; he slammed against the wall next to the window. His wand clattered on the floor.

The impact left him unable to speak, hardly able to breathe. Gasping in air felt like trying to push a massive weight off his chest, like the Night Mare from back in second year. His legs held him up, but barely; he could feel the hare hopping, the jarring vibration of it up through the floor, like a giant playing hopscotch, like some kind of sadistic game. 

Game…

He looked up, still barely able to move, and caught Penelope's eye. He lifted one hand, and deliberately punched it into the air three times—fist, then flat palm, then two fingers spread in a V.

 _Ahh, she IS brilliant,_ Baz thought, as she spun without hesitation, held her ring-hand palm out at the rabbit, and shouted, **_“Paper beats rock.”_**

The hare screamed like a slide of rock and scree—Agatha and Simon were joining Penelope in the spell—Baz darted for his wand—then it kicked him with one massive hind foot and he was lifted up in the air— _through_ the gaping window-frame—clipping his head on the edge of the stone frame as he fell into darkness, barely feeling the rush of air against his face.

When Baz opened his eyes he didn't remember the actual fall... but he was on his back, looking up at the looming ceremonial tower, the topmost window fifty feet above him. His line of sight also included the edge of the roof of the stables, and the lowering gray of the February sky.

He hurt everywhere, and when he tried to twitch his feet and fingers it made him bite back a groan. Had they moved? _Could_ they move? His mind twitched too, but was temporarily too numb for panic. He closed his eyes for a moment, a few moments maybe, and then opened them again.

He could smell hay (he seemed to be lying in it, and it was rather scratchy, poking into his back), horses and hounds; he could hear feet running toward him. At least two sets, from opposite directions, over the courtyard stones.

“Baz, god, _Baz, BazBazBaz, are you_ —” and Simon’s voice was so frantic that Baz didn’t even think before he called back, “Here, I’m here, _Simon,_ ” _gods, Simon, don_ _’t ever sound like that, don’t ever—_

The other voice was Martin Potts, and this was just perfect, wasn’t it. Some random, chubby-cheeked fifth year getting involved. “Simon! What happened—Basil, I saw him _falling_ —”

Simon was already on his knees next to Baz, breathing heavily; his eyes were wide and a little wild. “We finished the hare, but you... I couldn't even look, I just, I ran out the door—don't _move_ , Baz, Aleister almighty, just stay _still_...” He grabbed Baz’s hand. (At least I can feel it, Baz thought, and squeezed back.) “Don’t make me cast **_stiff as a board_** on you, you git.”

“It's fine, I'm fine,” Baz said, reflexively, but he stopped trying to stir.

More footsteps, and the girls' voices. “Basil! Simon, is he—”

“I am _fine_ ,” Baz said. “This hay is going to make me sneeze, if someone could just—”

A clamor of objection. “Spinal injuries” and “I saw you _bounce_ off the edge of the stable roof, Basil, you can't possibly—” from Martin, and “I’m so sorry Basil, we couldn't get to the window in time, are you—” from Penelope.

“Which window?” Martin asked, peering up.

Simon clung to his hand.

“I'm going for the doctor,” Agatha declared, and Baz turned his head with a jerk.

“Absolutely _not,_ ” he said.

“Absolutely _yes,_ ” Penelope countered.

“Which window,” Martin said again, with confusion and also a growing disbelief. It was true, the only window close to directly above them was the topmost—the others were offset, and certainly not above the stables.

“I'm not going to the hospital wing,” Baz protested. “Look.” He hesitated a moment, then gingerly lifted his arms, and bent his knees up. Gods, he hurt everywhere, like a giant bruise with double and triple bruises pressed atop, but he could move everything. (Thank goodness.)

“This isn't a _cartoon,_ Basil,” Penelope hissed. “You can’t just walk away from something like that.”

“Watch me,” Baz said, and started to roll over, but Simon pushed down on one shoulder, Penelope on the other, and Baz winced.

“I will _sit on you_ ,” she told him.

“Oh, and I'm sure that would be wonderful for my hypothetical spinal injury.”

“Agatha, go, get the doctors.” Penelope stopped Agatha with a hand on her ankle. “Basil fell off the stable roof, he needs to be checked out.”

Baz sputtered, “I don’t need—I am _not_.…”

“You _are_ , or we’re expanding the story,” Penelope snapped at him.

“What _is_ the whole story?” Martin asked, forlornly. “Crowley, Basil, how far did you fall?”

“We'll explain later, Martin,” Agatha put in smoothly. “I promise. Just... for now, please don't say anything?”

Martin looked at each of them in turn, troubled, but nodded. As if anyone can refuse Agatha anything, Baz thought, snidely, as she left.

“Bunce,” Baz started, but then Simon spoke up.

“We have to at least check, Baz.”

“Snow.” Baz widened his eyes, meaningfully, at him.

“I’ll stay with you the whole time, I swear,” Simon said, squeezing his hand tighter.

That won’t help me if they find out, Baz thought. Even the Mage’s Heir couldn’t save him if people discovered there was a vampire in the school. But maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe he really was fine, somehow, other than feeling as if he’d been trodden on.

 

***

 

He wasn’t quite fine.

In the hospital wing, Doctor Noble and Doctor Gupta listened to his heart, took his temperature (“a trifle low”), checked his eyes, and did several x-rays and a magical MRI scan. They said he had a couple of cracked ribs.

“Why were you on the stable roof?” Doctor Noble asked, severely, helping him sit up on the examination table.

“Just a stupid dare,” Baz said, hopefully contritely enough to satisfy her. He was shirtless, cold, and grouchy about it. Simon was on the other side of the room with Penelope, just a little too far for him to properly hear, even with enhanced senses, what they were whispering about. He barely caught something about “there’s something going on, it’s _impossible_ ,” from Bunce, before the doctor began to speak again.

“Well, you're a very lucky young man,” she told him. “This could have been far more serious. As it is, we’ll notify your parents that you’re fine.” She gave a small headshake and muttered a spell under her breath; the hat and veil of her uniform glittered for a moment, and bandages began winding themselves firmly around Baz’s chest. “And you can serve your detention for recklessness here in the hospital wing for the night, and all next week in the evening,” she continued. “Those ribs will likely be punishment enough.”

It _did_ hurt to breathe deeply. Or at all.

Dr. Gupta was frowning at the x-ray films again. “When did you break these vertebrae in your back, Mr. Pitch? They're healed but they look rather odd. Did you fall as a child?”

Baz opened his mouth to say that he'd never broken a bone before in his life, but then snapped it shut quickly. “Horse riding mishap when I was young,” he improvised.

He'd always had accelerated healing, but this was ridiculous.

Doctor Gupta hummed, then shook her head. “My professional recommendation is that you cease falling from heights, Mr. Pitch.” Doctor Noble nodded in the background.

They sent him to a bed by the far window with firm instructions to lie down and let the healing tonics they’d given him begin working. The window looked out on the low hills to the north of Watford, but he couldn’t see them properly when he lay flat. He thought about asking someone to adjust the head of the bed for him—where had his wand gotten to?—but he didn’t get further than the thought before his eyes were closing.

 

***

 

When Baz opened his eyes, still groggy, the light through the window was shading to evening. His wand lay on the nightstand (maybe even within arm’s reach if he could bear to move his arm, which he couldn’t), and Simon was sitting nearby in a bedside chair. He was fidgeting slightly, and didn’t seem to notice at first that Baz was awake. He kept looking at Baz’s hand, and then dragging his gaze away, like it physically pained him not to hold it.

“Sap,” Baz said, but he couldn’t fool even himself that he didn’t sound unbearably fond.

Simon looked up sharply, and Baz could hear his tiny intake of breath.

“Baz. Are you—how do you feel?”

“Peachy,” Baz said, trying not to move. Gods, he ached all over.

“Baz—”

Baz closed his eyes against the soft look on Simon’s face right now, and interrupted him. “So. What did we find?”

There was a moment of silence. “The hare sort of… crumbled. Left a weird coin behind.”

“Hm. Sounds rather dull.”

“Well, it does glow in the dark, apparently.”

Baz tried to shake his head ruefully, but left off right away. “And how’s Martin Potts taking it all?”

“We… we had to tell him some of what’s happening. That we were fighting a giant rabbit monster, and you fell….”

Baz winced, and then winced from the wincing. Even his face hurt.

“It’s all right. He wants to help,” said Simon.

“What?”

“He’s friends with Lucinda, and Elspeth, and they helped out with the selkie thing, fourth year, and… he says he wants to help.”

Was that really a good idea? Not a lot of choice at this juncture.

And speaking of unfortunate situations… Baz swallowed hard before he asked, “And Bunce?”

“What about her?”

Simon sounded so honestly bemused that Baz might’ve been angry, if he’d had any energy left for it. “Does she know yet.”

“Know what?”

Baz just looked at him.

“No, Baz, I didn’t tell her, come on.”

She probably doesn't need to be told, Baz thought, and then tried not to think. “So what does she think happened?”

“What do _you_ think happened?”

“I haven't the foggiest. I'm too sore to think.”

Simon frowned. “Currently, the theory is that maybe between the stable roof and the hay you fell into... maybe it was just enough to cushion you. Or maybe you did magic somehow.”

Baz didn’t see how that could’ve been. He didn’t even remember falling, and his wand had been up in the tower….

 “Or my theory is maybe it's because you're, y'know.” Simon made a growly sound and pulled a brief face, sticking his front teeth out over his bottom lip, and oh, gods, it hurt to laugh even a little, but Baz couldn’t help it. (It was worth it, to see that tiny grin on Simon’s face.)

“I don't know about that.” It wasn’t as if vampires could fly, or any of that film nonsense.

“Or maybe,” said Simon, “you're just really lucky.” 

Baz snorted. “That’s likely.”

Simon scooted forward in his chair a bit, leaning in. Was he sitting on his hands? “I don't really care what happened, honestly. I'm just—”

“Mr. Snow,” called Doctor Noble, from across the room, “your roommate needs his rest. Just a few more minutes of visiting time.”

“Yes, Snow,” Baz said, through a yawn that took him by surprise. His eyelids felt heavy again. “After all, it’s not every day I get defenestrated. Shame. Such an excellent word.”

He heard Simon’s snort. “Go to sleep, Baz.”

He could feel it pulling him down, each blink getting longer, but he still managed to say, “No one’s looking, are they?”

“What?”

Baz twitched his hand. “Go on, then, Snow.”

Baz’s eyes were too heavy to hold open now, but Simon’s hand held his tightly, warm and solid, his thumb moving just a little over Baz’s knuckles. Somehow, it didn’t hurt at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, oh my lovely betas.  
> And thanks, oh my lovely, implausibly patient readers.
> 
> Also: I solemnly swear that I wrote That One Spell in this chapter before _Carry On_ came out. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> *
> 
> This is my first time posting an in-progress fic. Gasp! Patience and encouragement are welcomed. :)


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